The Last Single Garrett

by Brenda Harlen

  “The scent of bacon is making me forget my annoyance,” he admitted, moving to the pot to refill his mug of coffee. “But not my curiosity.”

  She flipped the bread in the pan. “I’m sure I’m going to regret asking, but what are you curious about?”

  “What you usually wear to bed,” he admitted.

  “Not granny jammies,” she told him.

  He swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and though he knew it was a dangerous road for his mind to travel, he couldn’t resist. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a seductive whisper, “What do you prefer to sleep in? Whisper-thin silk? Peekaboo lace? Maybe a cute little baby doll with a ruffled hem that barely covers your—”

  “No,” she interjected firmly, pointing at him with the spatula in her hand.

  “No baby doll?” he pressed.

  “No to all of the above.”

  Which didn’t, as far as he could see, leave any other options. “Ha! You do sleep in granny jammies.”

  She shook her head as she added the slice of French toast to a platter warming in the oven, then dipped another slice of bread in the egg mixture before transferring it to the pan. Finally she turned to face him. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes, I really want to know.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” he echoed, his brain not comprehending—or maybe not wanting to comprehend—her response.

  Her lips curved, just a little. “I usually sleep in the nude.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t often that Tristyn had the pleasure of seeing Josh Slater at a loss for words, but he was apparently speechless now. She read the shock in his eyes—and maybe a hint of arousal, too, and decided to play with him a little.

  “I like nice clothes,” she said, lifting the bacon out of the pan and setting it on paper towels to drain the grease. “But after wearing them for ten or twelve hours, it feels good to finally strip them away and slide naked between the sheets. There’s nothing like the sensation of Egyptian cotton against my body.”

  She hummed with pleasure as she added two more slices of toast to the stack in the oven. “Except maybe the touch of a man...the slide of strong hands over my silky skin...lingering in all the right places.”

  “I would suggest you not casually throw around mention of your lovers,” he warned.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I might be tempted to take you to my bed and make you forget the names of everyone else you’ve ever been with.”

  “And here I thought there wasn’t anything about me that ever tempted you,” she mused.

  “You could tempt a saint,” he told her. “And we both know that’s one thing I’m not.”

  “Then I guess I have nothing to worry about.”

  He reached past her to snag a piece of bacon. “You’re feeling pretty brave this morning—after running away last night,” he remarked.

  “I didn’t run away,” she denied. “I was tired.”

  “You were scared.”

  “You don’t scare me, Josh.”

  “I know—it’s your own feelings that you’re afraid of.”

  “You might be right,” she acknowledged, her tone a seductive whisper that awakened his body more effectively than the caffeine he’d consumed.

  “In fact, there are times—” she looked up at him, then dropped her gaze, deliberately fluttered her lashes “—I’m not sure I can control the overwhelming urge—” she fluttered her lashes again “—to brain you with a frying pan.”

  He grinned and tugged on the end of her ponytail. “Please try—at least until after you’ve finished cooking breakfast.”

  “I’d be more successful if you’d give me some space,” she told him.

  “Okay.” He snagged another piece of bacon. “I’m going to grab a quick shower while you’re finishing up.”

  * * *

  Tristyn silently cursed Josh as she tossed two pieces of burned toast into the sink and dipped new slices of bread. Making French toast was a simple task—but he’d managed to unnerve her so completely that she hadn’t realized the bread was burning. Yeah, a lot of years had passed since she was a seventeen-year-old girl with a crush on her cousin’s best friend. Unfortunately, her visceral response to his nearness was unchanged, but no way was she going to let him know it.

  It’s your own feelings that you’re afraid of.

  Maybe she wasn’t as adept at hiding her emotions as she wanted to believe. Or maybe he was just being Josh—teasing and flirting because that was his natural response when he was in the company of anyone female. And she teased and flirted back, because it helped preserve the illusion that she was unaffected by him. Except that the burned toast in the sink and the quivers in her belly proved otherwise.

  When the bread in the pan was cooked, she added it to the platter in the oven along with the bacon and began to set the table for breakfast. She was pouring juice for the girls when Hanna came into the kitchen, holding the front of her shorts.

  “I has to go potty.”

  “Your uncle Josh is in the shower, so you’re going to have to wait a few minutes,” she warned the little girl.

  “I has to go now,” Hanna insisted. Which, based on their experience the day before, meant that Tristyn didn’t have time to walk the girl halfway across the camp to the public facilities.

  “Pee pee or poop?” she asked, thinking it wouldn’t be a big deal to take the little girl outside and let her squat behind a tree.

  “Poop!” Hanna told her, then giggled.

  Tristyn sighed. “Okay—just a sec.” She went to the narrow door and knocked. “Hanna needs the toilet.”

  “Can she wait five minutes?” Josh replied through the door.

  She looked at the little girl, who was still holding the front of her shorts and shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. “I doubt it.”

  He responded by shutting off the water. Thirty seconds later, the door opened and he stepped out with only a towel wrapped around his exquisitely muscled and dripping-wet torso.

  Hanna immediately pushed past him and into the bathroom.

  Tristyn stood where she was, her feet rooted to the floor, her gaze riveted on the droplets of water that were sliding over Josh’s taut and tanned skin. She curled her fingers into her palms to resist the urge to touch him. Because she did want to touch him. She wanted to run her hands over all his body, tracing the contours of those rippling muscles. She wanted to step closer and breathe in his clean, masculine scent, to press her lips to his skin and—

  “Tristyn,” Josh said.

  She lifted her eyes and saw the hunger she felt reflected in his.

  “I go pee pee,” Hanna announced from inside the bathroom.

  Tristyn shifted her attention from Josh and stepped toward the door. “You said you had to poop,” she reminded the little girl.

  “Poop,” Hanna echoed, and giggled again.

  “I think she just likes saying the word,” Josh remarked.

  Unbidden, Tristyn’s gaze slid in his direction again, lingering on the shampoo lather that had dripped from his hair to his broad shoulders...to his wide chest...the six-pack abs...and lower.

  “You’re staring,” he said softly, amusement mingled with the heat in his tone.

  She tore her gaze away, and reached into the bathroom to grab the little girl’s arm and turn her toward the door.

  “I has to wash up,” Hanna protested.

  “You can do that in the kitchen.”

  Josh moved past them into the bathroom to resume his shower. She heard the door latch, then the water start again. He would be discarding the towel now, exposing the rest of his hard, lean body—

  She shoved the tantalizing image firmly to the back of her mind and foc
used her attention on serving up breakfast.

  * * *

  The girls had never been to a stock car race, so the whole experience was a little overwhelming to them. Hanna, in particular, was terrified by the crowds and the noise, and she wrapped her arms around one of Josh’s legs as if she wouldn’t ever let go. Even Emily and Charlotte dutifully stuck close when he bought them Ren D’Alesio T-shirts and hats at the souvenir hauler so they would be appropriately attired for the race.

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose when he handed her the goodies. “Why can’t I have a purple T-shirt like that one?” she asked, pointing to a girl wearing the colors of a rival team.

  “Because then you’d be showing your support for Scott Peterson’s car. Our car is green and gold.”

  “Who picked those colors?”

  “They match the Archer Glass logo,” he explained, naming the major sponsor of the GSR team.

  Though she still didn’t look thrilled, she dutifully put on the shirt when Tristyn escorted them to the bathroom to change. Of course, it probably helped that Tristyn was wearing her GSR polo shirt in the same colors. After ensuring they were settled in the owners’ suite, she’d disappeared for a meeting with Ren’s PA, leaving Josh with the three girls.

  “Why are there so many people?” Emily asked, leaning forward in her seat and craning her neck to survey through the glass the crowd that packed the grandstands.

  “They’re here to meet the drivers and watch the race.”

  She seemed satisfied with that answer—at least for the moment. After about ten minutes had passed, she looked at him again. “They just go round and round in a circle?”

  “Well, it’s a little more complicated than that,” he said, though he couldn’t think of an explanation that would make sense to or satisfy an inquisitive five-year-old girl.

  “How do you know who’s in front?” Charlotte asked, since the cars were spread out around the track.

  “The blue-and-white car—number 535—is leading right now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve been watching the race. But also because the numbers of the leaders are posted on that tower,” he said, pointing it out to her.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Hanna was paying more attention to her frayed shoelace than the action on the track, but at least she was sitting quietly.

  “I’m hungry,” Emily told him.

  Hanna looked up. “I tirsty.”

  He glanced at Charlotte, who shrugged.

  So he got them set up with food and drinks and was just replying to a text message from his business partner when the door opened and Paris Smythe, a stock car fan and racing blogger, slipped into the room. Over the past few months, she’d made it clear to Josh that she would be happy to give his team some extra coverage—if he got under the covers with her. She was a beautiful woman and he couldn’t deny that he’d been tempted, but so far he’d managed to resist her overtures.

  He hit Send, then tucked his phone away again.

  “I missed you in Daytona,” Paris said to him.

  “I wasn’t at the race,” he admitted. “I had to go back to Charisma early to deal with a family situation.”

  “Well, you can make it up to me tonight,” she suggested, shifting closer and tipping her head back to brush her lips over his. “I’m at the Courtland Hotel—room 722.” She slid a key card into his pocket. “I figured you’d be able to remember that number.”

  He took the card out of his pocket and put it back in her hand. “I’m sorry,” he lied. “But I won’t be able to make it tonight.”

  The teasing glint in her eye faded. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m still dealing with the family situation I mentioned,” he said.

  “What family situation?” she finally asked.

  He turned her to face the front of the box, where Charlotte, Emily and Hanna were seated. “You see those three little girls?”

  Her eyes went wide. “They’re not yours.”

  “No,” he acknowledged. “They’re my sister’s—but they’re my responsibility for the summer.”

  “Jeez, you had me worried there for a minute,” she said, and laughed weakly. Then she looked at him again. “Three kids? For the whole summer?”

  He nodded.

  She traced one of the buttons on his shirt with a fingernail. “Well, can’t you find someone to watch them for at least one night?” she implored.

  “Not tonight,” he told her. “They’ve only been with me for a couple of days and we’re still getting accustomed to roles and routines. On the other hand, if you wanted—”

  “No,” she cut him off abruptly. “Kids aren’t really my thing—not even with a man as handsome as you as the potential reward.” She trailed her fingers down his shirt, hooked a finger in his belt and tugged playfully. “But if you find yourself free, you know where to find me.”

  He nodded. “Enjoy the race.”

  “I always do,” she said.

  Then she was gone.

  “Who was that?”

  He jolted at the question, then turned to find his eldest niece standing behind him. “Who?”

  “The lady who just left.”

  “Oh, um, that was Paris Smythe. She’s writes about racing.”

  “Paris is a place not a name,” she informed him.

  “Charlotte is also a place,” he pointed out to her.

  “No, it’s not,” she denied.

  “Sure it is. In fact, it’s the largest city in North Carolina.”

  She frowned at that for a minute, before she asked, “Is Paris your girlfriend?”

  “What? No.”

  “Then why was she kissing you?” she pressed.

  “I don’t know what you think you saw—”

  “I saw her kissing you,” Charlotte said. “And your lips are pink now.”

  He wiped a hand over his mouth to erase the remnants of Paris’s lipstick. “She was just being friendly.”

  “Mommy says that a girl should never kiss a boy unless she means it.”

  “Means what?” Josh wondered.

  Charlotte shrugged. “How should I know? I’m only seven.”

  He fought against a smile as he attempted to redirect the conversation. “What do you think of the race so far?”

  “It’s okay,” she said, then, “Is Tristyn your girlfriend?”

  “No, she’s just a friend.”

  “Does she kiss you like that?”

  “No,” he said. “What’s with all the kissing questions?”

  “I’m just trying to figure things out.”

  “Let’s try to figure out if our car is going to win this race,” he suggested, guiding her back to the seat beside her sisters—including one who was now topless.

  He closed his eyes as he drew in a slow, steadying breath. “Emily, where’s your shirt?”

  She pointed to the floor.

  He picked up the discarded garment and tried again. “Why is your shirt on the floor?”

  “’Cuz it’s scratchy.”

  He hunkered down beside her chair. “Sweetie, you can’t just take off your clothes in a public place.”

  “I only taked off my shirt,” she told him.

  “Please put it back on.”

  “It’s scratchy,” she said again.

  He looked around. “Where’s the backpack with your other shirt?”

  Then he remembered that Tristyn had it and that she’d gone to Ren’s hauler for the meeting.

  “You’re going to have to put this one back on until we can find Tristyn,” he told Emily.

  “Can we find her now?”

  “Not right now,” he said, tugging the shirt over her head. “She’s in
a meeting.”

  “When can we go back to the trailer?” Charlotte asked.

  “When the race is over,” he promised.

  “When’s it gonna be over?” Emily asked. “They’ve gone round and round lotsa times.”

  He glanced at the tower to check the lap number. “They’ve gone around sixty-two times,” he told her.

  Which meant there were only 205 laps left to go.

  And it was definitely time to find Tristyn.

  Chapter Nine

  Tristyn didn’t say much on the return trip, but Josh suspected that might have been because the girls were chattering nonstop and it would have been difficult to get a word in edgewise. Although he was preoccupied with his own thoughts about the race—grateful that the top-ten finish would help both D’Alesio and GSR in the overall standings—he sensed that her mind was focused on something else.

  It was dinnertime when they got back to the RV, but the girls had eaten so much at the track—hot dogs and popcorn and ice cream—that they weren’t really hungry. Tristyn claimed that she wasn’t, either, although she’d had almost continuous meetings while they were at the track, and even during the race, so he didn’t know when she would have managed to grab a bite. He made himself a grilled-cheese sandwich while she took Charlotte, Emily and Hanna to the playground so that they could burn off their excess energy.

  When they came back, Tristyn instructed them to get their pajamas on. Of course, that was when they decided they needed a snack, so she fixed them each a bowl of cereal. After the girls were finished eating and had brushed their teeth and were tucked into bed, she busied herself with wiping the table and washing the dishes.

  “You’re going to wash the stripes right off that bowl,” he said, when she’d swiped the cloth over it for the fifth time.

  “What?”

  He looked pointedly at the bowl in her hands.

  “Oh.” She rinsed the soap off and set it in the dish drainer to dry.

  “Are you going to tell me what I did to piss you off?”

  She was silent for a minute, as if considering how to answer the question, but she didn’t deny that she was pissed off.